Drive
by SomethingBlue42
Summary: When Dean dreams, it's of long stretches of night road, the Impala's headlights cutting the darkness in long thin lines with the steering wheel humming beneath his hands.


When Dean dreams, it's of long stretches of night road, the Impala's headlights cutting the darkness in long thin lines with the steering wheel humming beneath his hands. He drives, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes with purpose, but he's always by himself. It's not unpleasant, just lonely and the radio doesn't work - even though he'd sworn he'd fixed that about fifty miles back - so it's quiet. Just the tires on the pavement and the soft _fwt_ of passing mile markers.

He never has to stop for gas, but he does anyway, just to top her off and grab some snacks even though he's never hungry. He leaves the money by the register because it seems like the attendant is always off somewhere on break. He gets back in the car and he drives on.

When he wakes up he's sprawled across the front seat, his brother wiggling restlessly in back. He closes his eyes against the gray morning light, licking away the taste of sleep from his lips. He listens to Sam dream, restless and panicked, before pushing himself up, body fitting into the driver's seat and the only difference between the dream and reality is the sunlight and the bad taste in his mouth. His feet find the pedals, pumping the gas a few times before cranking the engine and the roar forces his brother sharply into consciousness, the soft bump from dirt to pavement jostling them both as they move on.

"Are you ever gonna do anything with that?"

Sam eyes the balled-up fabric in Dean's hand as he moves it from one end of the trunk to the other, searching for more rock-salt shells. Dean doesn't answer, just purses his lips as he shoves the stained coat between gun barrels and jugs of holy water.

"We could give it a hunter's buri-"

"It's a coat, Sam," Dean growls as if that's the stupidest thing Sam has ever uttered, closing the conversation with the slamming of the trunk.

It's a freezing night in Nebraska when they have to choose between dinner or a motel and as with every other argument Dean's stomach wins out. They huddle under army blankets as old as themselves, Dean in front, his brother in back, but it's impossible to sleep with their breath curling in wispy clouds over their heads. Even though he knows it's just the cold, memories make Dean anxious and he rolls onto his belly, resting his forehead against the armrest to breathe into the leather seat.

He hears Sam's breathing even out, but Dean can't get comfortable, feeling the cold in his bones, reminding him that he's not as young as he used to be. His knuckles skim the floorboard, rasping over cheap polyester, and he peeks from under closed lids to find a wad of tattered beige fabric under his hand. It had come out of the trunk accidently with the blankets, Dean not wanting to waste time disentangling it from the old wool when the wind was whipping so violently against his chapped hands. His fingers curl into it, holding a handful, but it's freezing cold just like everything else around him.

When the Impala idles to a stop, almost of its own volition, something finally clicks in Dean's head that this was what he'd been seeking out for months. All the driving, all the black stretches of lonesome road, were puzzle pieces fitting together and finally leading him here.

The grass by the bank is soft, masking his footsteps, so when his boots hit the wood of the dock, it sounds like a gunshot in the silent night. He walks to the end with caution, finding the tackle box and the chair right where he'd left them, his fishing pole leaning against the arm. He sits tentatively, looks up at the starless sky, and waits.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up his arms are curled to his chest, the coat crushed against his sternum. His head is tucked down, nose pressed against the collar, breathing in the stale musty scent, like clothes left in the washer too long mixed with a strange hint of sulfur.

He shoves it down and away, squinting into the cold morning light. His scrambling stops when he finds Sam watching him through the windshield, a brown paper bag in his hand and a look of sadness on his face. Dean pulls himself into the driver's seat, wiggling until he's comfortable, wiping his mouth with his hand and looking straight ahead. Sam folds himself into the passenger seat, Dean's eyes cutting to the floorboard and he reaches down, ripping the coat from underneath his brother's mammoth feet. He wads it up and is about to chuck it over his shoulder into the back, but balks at the last minute, letting it fall on the seat between them.

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean snatching the bag from his hands startles him into silence. He watches his brother set the bag firmly on the coat and dig through it, pulling out two of the doughnuts – the raspberry filled and a plain glazed, leaving the chocolate covered one for Sam as a kind of bribe. _You__leave__me__alone__you__get__the__sprinkles._ Sam would find it funny if it didn't jab so sharply at the broken parts inside him.

Even though his subconscious has found what he's been looking for Dean still drives. Never too far, usually just up and down the road, peering out at the water as he passes. Other times he stands on the dock, or sits in the chair. Sometimes he casts a line, but nothing ever bites.

Patience is wearing thin. The water ripples darkly and he stands on the dock for what feels like hours, staring petulantly up into that inky black sky. His teeth grind. Months of silence and darkness, wandering and waiting, make him itch to maim something, to hurt and tear, but he's all alone, not a threat in sight. So he settles for something he can break.

He snaps the fishing pole clean in two, chucking the broken pieces into the lake, grabbing up the chair and tossing it as well, watching the objects sink down with nary a ripple. He swallows hard, the memory of a man sinking beneath the water before darkness exploded below, the surface still smooth as glass. He gives the tackle box a hard kick, knocking it over. Fishing lures skitter along the dock, bobbers spinning out and rolling off the edge.

"Dean."

Dean freezes, the voice sending pinpricks of shock and terror down his spine. He doesn't turn around, doesn't dare hope. He feels movement behind him, a little gust of wind causing the water to resume its quiet lapping at the dock, moonlight shimmering off the water. He's standing next to him now, both surveying the still water and Dean chances a quick look out of the corner of his eye.

Castiel is standing stoic as ever, white shirt rumpled and tie askew. His hands hang at his sides, brow drawn in his usual look of quiet consternation. Dean's fingers itch, the horrifying urge to grab onto him and pull him close, a feeling he's never had about anyone before except for Sam and, if he let himself think about it that long, his mother, threatening to overtake him.

"Throwing them out is no good," Castiel says and Dean finally permits himself to turn his head, to look at the angel straight on. "You see?"

Dean looks down and finds the chair and the tackle box sitting there like always, the fishing pole leaning against the arm. It's eerie and unsettling and he's glad Cas is standing next to him.

"Where've you been Cas?" Dean asks finally, his voice unsteady as he takes in his friend, whole and new standing beside him. The angel's lips quirk quickly before straightening again.

"What makes you think I'm here now?" he asks, finally turning his calm and steady eyes on Dean, making Dean feel small, a thrill of terror running down his spine. "This isn't real, Dean."

"But… but…"

"I'm gone," Castiel says firmly, his eyes holding steady and Dean feels something break inside him, something he didn't think he had to break in the first place. "You need to stop coming here."

"Where do I go?" Dean asks, his voice helpless, suddenly lost and it's as if a cloud had shifted over the moon, a shadow moving over Castiel's face.

"You drive." Castiel says simply and he turns, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder blade and it feels real, sounds real, the shuffling of their footsteps along the dock as Castiel ushers him back over to the car.

"But where?" Dean asks and he's sent back in time, standing next to this same old car and looking up into the grieving face of his father who had just told him they had to go.

Castiel's face is steadier, smoother than his father's had been, but the grief in his eyes is the same. "Anywhere," Cas whispers reaching for the door handle and pulling it open to allow Dean to crawl inside. "Anywhere but here."

"And you're not real?" Dean asks skeptically.

"I am a figment of your imagination," Castiel says his voice weary, but firm. "Get in the car, Dean. Drive."

Dean's brow draws, never taking his eyes off Castiel as he lowers himself slowly into the car, his hand moving to brace against the seat and falling on the scratchy polyester of the trench coat. He pulls it into his lap as he settles, looking at it, stained and torn, wrinkled beyond recognition.

"Thank you," Castiel says and the fabric slips through Dean's hands as Cas pulls it out through the window, "…for saving this." He stands back to give it a shake, moving to thread his arms through it and when he tugs at the lapels it's like new again.

"Figment of my imagination or not…" Dean says squinting out over the steering wheel at the dock, "Am I ever gonna see you again?"

Castiel affords him a rare smile. "It would be unwise."

"I've been known to be dumb on occasion," Dean challenges and the smile wipes clean from Castiel's face.

Castiel waits a beat before leaning over, resting his forearms awkwardly on the door, his face level with Dean's and soulful blue eyes meet fearful green. "One Winchester brother with hallucinations is bad enough."

Dean grits his teeth, glaring out over the steering wheel and he doesn't like this. Doesn't like it one bit, but Cas isn't giving him a choice. Normally he'd attempt to carve out his own choice, but that feels impossible here, too much dark and quiet and not enough hope.

A hand finds its mark on Dean's shoulder, the scar burning even under two layers of fabric, drawing his attention back to the angel. Castiel's eyes are earnest and deep, scanning Dean's face openly as if this were the last time he was going to be able to do it. His fingers press harder against Dean's shoulder, causing the man to pull in a quick gasp, brow drawing as he watches Castiel's free hand reach to touch the side of his face. He doesn't have time to relish the touch, barely hearing Castiel whisper:

"Forget."

Dean wakes with a start, foot kicking out and jamming his knee against the glove box. He hears his brother's snort of laughter from the driver's seat, some lackadaisical melody raping the stereo speakers and he jabs at the buttons to make it stop. Flat farmland zips past the window as he rubs the sleep from his eye, bracing his hand against the seat to sit straighter, hand meeting leather.

His brow furrows, looking dumbly down at his hand on the seat the gears of his brain grinding thinking there's something missing, something extremely important.

"You alright?" Sam asks, eyes flicking to his brother in cautious confusion.

"Yeah," Dean says, giving his head a shake as he settles more firmly in his seat, feeling strangely hollow. "Yeah, just drive."


End file.
